I tripped on the branch,

Of that elder tree

That swayed in the softest breeze

And faltered its leaves in the suffocation of silence.

My skin peeled a deep red,

And its leaves, waving in the wind

Embellished my skin with a soft green

And mixed with the red of my blood.

I watched it sink into me,

And how it healed my wounds

And the waters of my being stopped flowing

In that moment, I was new.

The tears of the tree,

That fell from its branches

Soothed my tattered body

But in despair, I could not do the same

They fell on the rings,

My tears, trickling past each one

Till it had reached the middle

Where they sunk deep inside of that stump

The trees don’t sway,

In that summer breeze of the west wind

As they clutch onto their peeling skin

The trust is lost.

To know what to say,

To those that fear our hands,

And shudder in silence as we walk past them

“Hold onto them, they give us life.”

Out of necessity at the implication of our denial

We stand under what once would have healed

And nurtured our own,

With a drop of its fruit.

And even the calling of the hands from above,

Could not remedy the pain felt

As we watched them burn in the night

And satisfy our fears of the unseen.